I land on a picture of her at last month’s Halloween festival. She hated her class’s fairy-tale costume theme, but I thought she looked absolutely precious in her Red Riding Hood cloak and gown. So sweet and innocent. Just the way she did on Halloweens past. When I’d spend weeks patterning and sewing her costume of choice, and then we’d trick-or-treat through the neighborhood until way past bedtime, until her jack-o-lantern candy bucket was overflowing and we had to use our coat pockets to keep up with the supply.
But that was before.
Before that sweet, innocent little girl started ditching class to do naughty things with bad boys, and then lie about it—
“Did you find a good one?”
Dan’s prompt and subsequent nudge to the side steal me back to the present.
“Oh, um . . . yes. Here.”
Blinking hard, I hand over my phone to Mrs. Hoffstra, mindful not to expose my wounded palm along the way. “That was at her school Halloween carnival. They had to dress up like a fairy-tale character.”
A soft smile spreads across her wrinkled cheeks as she stares at the image, then holds the phone toward her husband for a look. “Isn’t she pretty?”
“Mm-hmm,” Mr. Hoffstra agrees with a hearty nod.
“She’s definitely got your coloring”—she glances at Dan, referring to Avery’s piercing blue eyes and fair complexion—“but she’s got your smile, and I’m guessing your disposition,” she adds. “Seems like little girls tend to take after their mothers.”
I smile at her well-intended comment, but considering Avery lied straight to my face a few hours ago, I’m afraid she favors her father.
Thankfully, Mr. Hoffstra decides to reroute the conversation away from our personal lives and on to Brugada syndrome, the rare cardiac condition that took his father’s life nearly thirty years ago. This offers my poor hand and wrist a short reprieve, requiring little more input from me than the occasional nod or a “That’s interesting.” But even better, it limits Dan’s comments to those of a physician rather than a father, or a terrible husband.
With the way my blood is humming beneath my skin, I’m not sure my limbs can survive much more of Dan the Husband tonight.
After confirming we don’t have time for dessert—the Hoffstras are tired from a busy day of travel, and Dan has to head back to the hospital to catch up on paperwork—Chelsea brings us the bill.
“I’ve got this.” Mr. Hoffstra makes a move for the little leather folder, but Dan’s faster than him and snatches it away before he even makes contact.
“Oh no you don’t,” Dan says firmly. “This one’s all mine. My invitation, my treat.”
“Fine, fine.” Mr. Hoffstra raises his hands, chuckling. “But that just means next time is on me.”
“Deal,” Dan replies, grinning.
Despite the anger clouding my thoughts, I’m still lucid enough to know that Mr. Hoffstra’s invitation is a good thing—they like us!—but the mere thought of having to play Ward and June again makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
You’re almost done, Jane.
One dinner at a time.
You can do this.
Just a few more minutes.
The finish line is right in front of you—
“Excuse me, Dr. Osborne?” An older man suddenly approaches the table. My stomach wrenches when I observe the look in his eyes. It’s the same starstruck look I’ve seen a thousand times. The look that used to fill me with pride but now just makes me want to scream.
Dan looks up from where he’s signing the charge slip. “Yes?”
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” the man says sheepishly, eyeing the table with an apologetic smile. The Hoffstras look on with wide-eyed curiosity, while I swallow through the profanities tickling my tongue. “I’m sure you don’t remember me, but my name’s Carl Montgomery. You treated me last year . . .”
“Well, sure I do,” Dan says, nodding over a manufactured, modest smile. He sets the pen down so he can shake the man’s hand. “Carl Montgomery. It’s nice to see you, sir. How are you feeling these days?”
“I’m just great,” he says, cheeks flushing at the gesture. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I just had to come over and tell you how grateful I am to you for what you did for me. I would have died if it wasn’t for you.”
“Oh my.” Mrs. Hoffstra clutches her chest.
“No, no.” Dan waves off the praise with a raise of his hand. “If memory serves, you were a pretty routine case. Just an . . . angioplasty and a stent implantation, am I right?”
“Yes!” Mr. Montgomery chirps, delighted by Dan’s astute memory. “I can’t believe you remember.”
“Well, some things just stick,” Dan says stoically. “And is that your wife?” He glances around Mr. Montgomery to a table in the corner, where a woman is looking on with a kind of moony-eyed reverence that makes my stomach turn.
“Yes, that’s my wife, Janet. She said I should come over and say hi to you—to tell you how thankful we are for everything you did.”
“Thank you so much!” Mrs. Montgomery calls out from her table. “We’re so grateful!”
I swallow a disgusted sigh.
Save your praises, lady.
He doesn’t deserve them!
Dr. Osborne doesn’t just fix hearts . . . he breaks them!
“Isn’t this something . . . ,” an awestruck Mrs. Hoffstra mutters to her husband, who wastes no time nodding in agreement.
Aware of his captive audience, Dan turns to the Hoffstras. “You know, I should really go over and say hi. Would you excuse me for a minute?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Mrs. Hoffstra says.
“By all means,” Mr. Hoffstra confirms.
With cultlike devotion in his eyes, Mr. Montgomery leads Dan across the room to meet his wife while the Hoffstras watch, captivated, as if Jesus himself has just walked away from the table to go heal a leper.
Liar!
A snarl tugs on my upper lip as another jolt of anger rips through my body, rattling my bones.
You are such a phony.
If these people knew the real you, they’d never treat you like their savior—
“You must be so proud of him,” Mrs. Hoffstra says, oblivious to my distress. “It must feel so good to be married to such a wonderful man.”
I dig my nails deeper into my palms and through gritted teeth say, “Wonderful doesn’t even begin to describe him.”
CHAPTER 4
“It must feel so good to be married to such a wonderful man,” I mumble in a snarky tone as I climb up into the car, slamming the door shut behind me. “Yeah, it’s so wonderful, Mrs. Hoffstra. It’s about as wonderful as being old and gullible!”
I ram the keys into the ignition, cringing against the sound of my acidic words. That wasn’t a fair thing to say. Mrs. Hoffstra and her husband are lovely people. Gracious and kind and beyond modest despite their substantial wealth. It’s not their fault Dan’s such a convincing liar.
Dan . . .
“Aaagh!!” I pound the steering wheel with my fists. “You are such an asshole!”
Asshole.
It’s the first time I’ve said the word aloud, even though I’ve been thinking it every day for the last two months.
Every day since the truth came out in the seventh-floor suite of the Denver Marriott Gardens hotel.
Without thought, my grip tightens around the wheel as memories of that heart-wrenching night start playing through my mind: the receipt that was mistakenly emailed to our joint account, the bold-faced lie he told when I asked about it, the smug apology he delivered when he finally confessed, the implication that Mom might suffer if I said anything—
“Asshole. Asshole. Asshole!”
I yank the gearshift into reverse and quickly back out of the parking space. Scalding breaths steam from my nostrils as I screech through the parking lot, eager to get home . . . desperate to get away from all this—
I am no longer bound by the confines of my—
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“Oh, shut up!” I grab my phone from my purse and slap at the screen, making contact with the “Pause” button to stop the car’s Bluetooth feature. “I know, I know,” I growl. “I am no longer bound by the confines of my penis. Well, you know what, Dr. Freaking Deedee? I am no longer bound by the confines of any penis—how about that?!”
My chest swells with a sense of empowerment. That’s right . . . ANY PENIS!
I toss the phone into the center console and head for the exit.
Making a hard right out of the parking lot, I see Dan’s sleek silver Mercedes sitting at the stoplight ahead of me, but he’s in the left turn lane that leads to the highway rather than the lane that leads directly to the hospital.
My anti-penis mojo instantly fades, replaced by a bitter taste that’s becoming all too familiar to my tongue.
Liar.
You said you were going to the hospital.
Where are you really going?
I tighten my hold on the wheel—wounded palms crying out in agony—and come to a creeping stop in the lane beside him, right in his blind spot so he can’t see me. Not that he would notice, even if I were window to window with him. He may have laser focus in the operating room, but as a driver, he might as well be wearing a bag over his head. He never notices anything.
Because my SUV sits up higher than his sedan, I’ve got a decent view of the inside of his car through the passenger windows. Unfortunately, there’s nothing in his back or passenger seat that hints of where he’s headed, but thanks to the wide dashboard, I can see that he’s talking on the phone. No names or phone numbers, though, just the words DR. O’S CELL illuminated across the display screen.
Who is he talking to?
I lean forward, craning my neck for a better look, so I’m able to see the side of his face—
My heart twists.
He’s laughing.
He’s laughing with whoever’s on the other end of the line.
After what we just went through—
He’s laughing?
A rumble of deep-seated fury rises up from my gut, forcing me to scream out my new favorite word—“Asshole!”—from the top of my lungs, but the insult only reverberates against my own ears, lost behind the layers of tinted glass surrounding me.
The light turns green and Dan punches the accelerator, zipping through the intersection and down the road to god knows where.
Follow him.
You deserve to know what he’s doing—
No, Jane.
Don’t do it.
Whatever he’s doing . . . you don’t need to see it—
He’s a liar!
He can’t keep getting away with this—
HONK!
The sound of a horn startles me, jostling my brain out of its argument. I glance at the rearview and find the car behind me flashing its lights, the driver gesticulating wildly toward the stoplight. As if I weren’t aware it was green.
“Fuck you!” I grunt back to the stranger, slowly pressing my foot down on the accelerator.
Fuck you.
There’s another sentiment I’ve been dying to express for the last two months; too bad I didn’t get to deliver it to the party who actually deserves it. The party who’s definitely not heading to the hospital like he said he was.
“Screw it.”
I crank the wheel a hard left, tires squealing beneath the sudden change in direction, so now I’m following in Dan’s wake.
His lying, laughing wake.
No more lying, asshole!
I hit the gas hard to make up for lost time, then slow my speed once he’s within eyeshot—close enough to follow his movements but far enough that he can’t tell it’s me.
I keep my eyes fixed on his red taillights—two demonic little eyes taunting me with their knowledge—as we pass by the Costco in the center of town, beyond the post office and public works building, then the country club and surrounding golf course that hug the city limits.
Where are you going?
My grip on the wheel stays firm, my attention so focused on catching him in his latest lie that I don’t realize how much time is passing or how far we’ve gone. That is, until I see a dilapidated sign off to the side of the road announcing our location nearly thirty miles from home: WELCOME TO MORRIS CREEK.
“Morris Creek?” I mutter.
Morris Creek is a beat-up old country town that most Mount Ivy residents wouldn’t even consider visiting, certainly no one I associate with. I’ve been here a couple of times before, but only with Dan to pick up food from his favorite BBQ place. Their St. Louis ribs are the only reason I can think anyone would drive all the way out here.
Is that what he’s doing?
Getting BBQ?
We carry on down the road, passing by a mobile home park and a series of abandoned, junked-out cars, before he finally pulls into the run-down strip mall where the Bloated Pig (his BBQ joint) is.
Big Cal’s Market sits like an anchor in the center of the mall (the letters C and K in its neon-yellow sign blackened with dead bulbs), with smaller stores on either side. There’s the BBQ place, Mr. Wong’s takeout, Lupe’s Shoe Repair, a real estate office, a rent-to-own furniture store . . .
I slow down, allowing several other cars to pass me, before I turn into the lot. Despite the obviousness of our destination, something about this doesn’t feel right. He just ate a sixty-dollar steak. Why would he need BBQ now?
My stomach shifts uneasily as Dan slowly makes his way down the length of the mall. He passes the Bloated Pig and the countless empty parking spots in front of it, then the shoe-repair place, then the market . . . never once even tapping his brakes.
I swallow hard.
He continues through the parking lot—passing every storefront—then finally turns right and disappears behind the side of the building.
What the heck?
Where is he going . . . ?
Suspicion mounting, I quickly determine that my Range Rover stands out too much here—even oblivious Dan would recognize the “Proud Mom of a Mount Ivy Panther” license plate rim in this environment—so I pull into a spot in the middle of the lot, right next to an old pickup with a “Perot ’96” sticker peeling off its rear window, and take off after him on foot.
My heart beats hard and fast as I navigate my way across the broken asphalt and up to the corner of the building, coming to a stop in front of Fancy Nails nail salon, home of the ten-dollar fill, according to the hand-painted sign on the window.
I press my back up against the building and slowly peek my head around the corner for a better look. Huh? It’s just an empty lot: a blanket of aged asphalt illuminated by a lone, naked bulb attached to the side of the building. But Dan’s nowhere to be seen. I don’t see his car anywhere—
Wait.
A faint light in the distance catches my attention.
I narrow my eyes.
It’s a blue light that’s flashing off and on like it’s pulsing. It’s coming from the back of the mall.
What is that?
Despite the obvious danger of the situation—single woman / dark parking lot / no witnesses—I press on, hunched over and creeping through the shadows like a cartoon villain in pursuit of hidden treasure, except it’s not treasure I’m after: it’s the liar who isn’t where he said he’d be.
My heart slams hard against my ribs as I slowly make my way toward the back of the building, navigating around weeds and random pieces of trash, the blue light getting brighter—pulsing more intensely—with every step. And now I can hear the thump thump thump of music too. That low hum of bass, like dance music.
Dance music?
What the hell is going on?
I’m just approaching the corner of the building when I notice a shimmering sign hammered to an old telephone pole across the lot from me. I glance over each shoulder, confirming I’m as alone as I feel, then take a step closer for a better look—
My stomach drops: THE BONE YARD.
The Bo
ne Yard.
I know that name.
I’ve seen it before.
In Denver.
On the charge receipt—
My teeth slam together, jaw muscles turning to concrete, as another flood of rage starts erupting through my veins.
He’s here.
Right now—
I have to see this.
I need to see this!
I sink back into the shadows of the building, aware that what I’m about to do is monumentally stupid and will provide me nothing but heartache, but for some reason I have to do it.
I have to witness this.
I have to see firsthand what’s become of our life!
I crouch down and nervously peek around the corner. The light pulses wildly back here, casting spastic flashes of blue to splay across the asphalt and the two dozen or so cars parked in the lot. I cast another glance over each shoulder, then scurry into the parking area before coming to a hunched-down stop behind a dark minivan. I peer around the front fender to take inventory of my surroundings. From here I can see the building head-on. There are three loading docks, each with a steel roll-up door and a ramp leading up to it. The first two doors are shut tight, probably padlocked until morning, when the deliveries come in, but the third door, the one at the far end of the building, is wide open, the silhouettes of its partying patrons illuminated by the wild blue light, the thump-thumping music pulsing in time to their movements.
Asshole. You don’t even like to dance.
Fury grates my spine as I turn my attention back to the cars in the lot: a pickup truck, another minivan, a Jeep, Prius, Prius, Prius—
There it is.
There’s Dan’s Mercedes.
He’s parked near the dumpster in the far corner of the lot, just below the parking lamp.
It’s dim, but there’s enough light that I can see his silhouette and—
Oh god.
My heart wrenches, an unexpected whimper escaping my lips.
There’s someone in the seat beside him—
In my seat.
You know who it is, Jane.
See Jane Snap Page 5